The Problem with Sign Names
by rumandmoney
Summary: Why John moved in with a deaf mad man whom he couldn't communicate with, he didn't know. Still, what was life without a challenge? Deaf!Sherlock. AU.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author Note: **_This is kind of a trial run, so all critiques and reviews would be hugely appreciated! Not sure if this is going to be continued, as I haven't got any solid plans for it. I just wanted to write a fic that incorporated sign language and a deaf Sherlock. But obviously, if I get interest in it, of course I shall continue.

I do not own Sherlock BBC or, well, much of anything to be honest. So suing would be kind of useless.

Thanks to OddlySane for beta'ing it.

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><p>When Mike Stamford had taken John to Bart's to meet his new, potential flatmate, he'd assumed it'd be a pretty average bloke he'd be faced with.<p>

Average height, tiny bit on the overweight side, a doctor or researcher at the hospital dressed in a shirt from Asda's finest and ill-fitting suit trousers; like everyone else in the hospital.

He was not expecting to be faced with a towering man, slight over 6" in height, dressed in a well-tailored (if a small bit on the tight side) suit. Designer most definitely, although John wasn't particularly well-versed in the different types of designers, so his observation didn't go any further**. **A mop of inky curls, tousled around a striking pale, alien face. His skin was bleached white, almost translucent, by too many hours in front of a computer and not enough time outside.

No lab coat, either. So he probably didn't work there.

The accommodation was probably going to be out of his price range at this state. They'd soon resolve this slight issue, and John would be on his merry way, to the halfway house with only his gun for company, and needing to buy a constant supply of milk because he always forgot to put it back into the fridge (he was never on clean up in the mess hall, the habit had long-abandoned him) and trawling yesterday's papers classifieds looking for another flatmate.

It got interesting when the man tapped the bench using those ridiculously long fingers, staring pointedly over at Mike. He raised his hand, thumb and smallest finger splayed at his ear like some kind of mime for the word phone, head tilted to the side in question paired with raised eyebrow.

He'd assumed the man must have something in his mouth; he didn't seem the type to adhere to lab safety guidelines, probably a mouthful of coffee from the mug beside him or something of the like.

When Mike replied in a strangely exaggerated voice, perhaps a bit louder than strictly necessary, John was confused.

"Nooo", Mike shrugged, patting down his lab coat pockets, "other coat."

The man simply nodded, turning back to his work.

"Here, use mine," John said, fishing his out of his back pocket of his jeans. The man didn't respond.

Obviously. _Obviously. _

"He's deaf?"

"As a post," Mike replied, as politically correct as ever.

John raised his arm, smiling when the man turned to look at him.

"Use mine," he said, careful to keep his normal speaking voice. In the back of his head he remembered reading years ago that lip-reading was far easier without an exaggerated tone of voice or mouth movement.

The man stepped forward, eyes curious and worryingly piercing but smiling awkwardly all the same**, **placing the tips of all four fingers to his chin, curving downwards.

_Thank you._

One of the few signs that John recognized.

John just nodded in reply.

Good God, this was more awkward than John had first expected.

After firing off whatever text he had wanted to compose, the man turned back to John.

He struck his chest with his fist (_my, _John could only assume), before his right hand flew up to his forehead, pressing the first two fingers near his temple, flicking off. John didn't dare guess that.

Then the man's slim, pale hands began moving in movements that John remembered, albeit vaguely, from his years in secondary school, when the class had been taught the BSL alphabet as part of some disability awareness programme.

For most of the students it had been a chance to skip a few classes, but John had become interested and planned to continue to do his BSL Level 1 exam that summer, but then he met Amanda and the summer was spent doing things that were most likely unrelated to sign language but, admittedly, used a lot of hands.

S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K.

Well, surely that was wrong. What the hell was that meant to mean, Sherlock? It sounded like some quote from an old English poem.

Mike chuckled beside him, amused by the apparent look of confusion scrawled upon John's face.

"That's his name. Sherlock. Don't ask, it's bizarre, I know."

The man didn't stop in his slow, precise movements.

H-O-L-M-E-S

John nodded; desperately hoping it wasn't clear how baffled, and slightly nervous, he was about this whole venture.

The man paused.

He repeated the flicking of his forehead sign again, followed up by a strange circular movement of the hands, palms facing inwards. Almost as if he were rowing an invisible bike.

His hand then went to underneath his jaw, thumb and forefinger pinched, shooting across before flicking open to form a shape.

Mike interpreted for him.

"It's his sign name. A kind of nickname, I suppose. Don't actually know what it means to be honest. It's just what they call him. Quicker than spelling it out all the time, you see."

John tried mimicking the gesture. His hand was loose, the first not tightly balled enough and his movement not sharp enough, not quite skilled nor confident enough.

It made Sherlock smirk nonetheless. Whether it was at or with him, John wasn't quite sure, but it was a start.

Sherlock started moving his hands about again.

A-F-G-H-A-N-I-S-T-A-N

A pause.

I-R-A-Q.

His head was tilted to the side again, rather like a dog.

A-F-G was what John spelled out in reply, unsure whether or not he was actually doing anything remotely similar to the letters he intended to sign. H-O-W

The man only smirked in reply, smug and proud. He flicked to the back of the notepad he was writing down his observations in.

_Army doctor invalided home from Afghanistan and trained here at St. Barts. Got one brother, won't go to him for help. Don't approve, drinking habits, more likely because he walked out on wife. Also your therapist thinks you're limp is psychosomatic, correctly too I'm afraid. Enough?_

John looks suitably impressed, and a slight hint of shock.

He threw a questioning glance over to Mike, who only shrugged in reply.

"I didn't tell him, he's always like this," the larger man chuckled.

_Enough to be going on, don't you think? _The man continued scrawling onto the piece of paper.

John contemplated his choices here. He could either go view a flat with this strange man, even if he couldn't afford a dammed thing, or he could leave now.

In the end, curiosity won out.

"Where?" John asked.

Another piece of paper was torn off and a simple address scrawled upon it.

"_221b Baker Street, 7pm tomorrow."_

Without so much as waiting for a confirmation from John, Sherlock dashed off.

So why John bothered turning up the next evening, he didn't quite know. Curiosity on one hand, the man was quite obviously bizarre, but an interesting character. A challenge, on the other hand. The language barrier alone, never mind living with a man who was obviously more than a bit different.

When John turned, hopping carefully out of the black cab that he really couldn't afford on an army pension (but first impressions were important, or so the doctor inside him reminded him) he was greeted by Sherlock and a dog.

A small, golden cocker spaniel, wearing a burgundy jacket to be precise. _A hearing dog_.

His owner was already talking to an elderly woman on the doorstep on the building, dressed in a cerise skirt and blouse.

The elderly woman's hands fumbled, sometimes just falling limply at her side as she referred back to oral communication. Sometimes she asked Sherlock to sign slower, dragging her palm up her left arm as far as the elbow (_slow)._

It was somewhat surprising, seeing as he had his back turn to John, that it was Sherlock that noticed John standing there first.

He beckoned John over, casting a hand over the woman as if introducing a prize onto a game show.

"Ah, you must be John" the woman greeted in a singsong voice, pressing a kiss onto his cheek, "Sherlock's spoken all about you."

And that was the beginning of it.

The woman had turned out to be called Mrs. Hudson, a kind, gentle woman with a colourful past and amused herself by making assumptions about the new residents of 221b.

Sherlock, a strange, imposing figure who had managed to turn the flat into a tip within the first few hours on inhabitation, paired with his hearing dog, who John later learned was called Conan.

It wasn't exactly what John had expected, a far cry from his predicted George-wearing, overweight, middle-aged researcher.

But John found he had no hesitation when he finally agreed to move in.

After all, what was live without a bit of adventure and a challenge? That was the reason he had joined the army, after all.

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><p>All reviews and critiques are welcomed with open arms, for reason as mention in my AN.<p>

Descriptions of signs are in accordance to BSL and not incredibly accurate descriptions. The syntax of the sign is wrong too, but proper syntax didn't fit into the story properly :/ Sherlock's sign name will be explained in a later chapter if I do continue.

**Thank you for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

A huge thank you to everyone who reviewed, added this story to their alerts or favorites or added me to story alerts or favourites. seems to be giving me a bit of hassle in regards to replying to fanfic, so apologies to: **OddlySane, TheDorkOfYork, Miraxhorn, AllieChick, Jak's Catt, Lumoa, VampireWolfXIII, 98Shaddowolff98, Starlite1, Darklink, Evenmoor, KMM, rupzydaisy, acids-and-bases, half broken moon, AnimePiateGal**and**JennaEf**

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><p>I genuinely did not expect any feedback for that chapter, never mind such a huge response! So now, despite what I first planned, this story is, for now, continuing. Albeit, a bit slowly, because I'm unorganised.<p>

Moving in with a Deaf (1) man was always going to be a weird experience; John thought he'd simply have to get used to the dog and alarms that lit up rather than buzzed.

Otherwise the flat would be pretty normal.

If John had ever been wrong, he was most certainly wrong now.

The flat was a mess. Already the windows were half filled with handwritten notes and dog-eared journals, at risk of damp. And the books.

Don't get John started on the books. Books filled the shelves, balanced precariously on top of boxes, presumably filled with more books; they balanced in piles up to a meter high beside the fireplace.

The low coffee table was already seemingly buckling under the weight of reams of hand-written notes and photocopies of typewritten ones. A box balanced on an old, brown chair was filled with vinyl records, all classical by the looks of it. Pictures hung from the walls, ranging from artsy graphic prints of skulls to the types of paintings that were most likely to be found hanging in a charity shop.

A lamp perched on an end table between the sofa and the armchair, looking strangely modern with its chic shade and mirrored base. It contrasted with strange obviousness that John was unused to. Like finding a Mac in Victorian London (there was a laptop, open on the writing desk, but this wasn't, quite, Victorian London, although one could be forgiven for mistaking it so to be.)

The kitchen had been transformed into a lab, glassware filled with various chemicals and a pipette balanced precariously over a beaker that appeared to be full of, and John could only pray he was wrong, hydrogen peroxide if the label on the beaker was anything to go by, littered the dining table. The kitchen looked like it had come straight out of the 40's, ivy coloured tiling, stained parquet flooring covered in a grubby rag-rug. A long, fluorescent light hung over the table, providing the perfect light. A clotheshorse was propped up at the back of the room unexplainably.

"It's nice, very nice," he trailed of, giving a limp thumbs up. Sherlock smirked at his attempt at signing, but nodded in response nonetheless.

"Messy," he added.

The other man's mouth formed a small "o" and John was sure if he were the type to blush, then he would have. He darted around the room, brushing loose sheets of paper in messy piles, stabbing an ornate letter opener through the mail into the soft wood of the fireplace mantel.

John noted the skull for the first time, up until now it had been lost amidst the rest of the bizarre knick-knacks that the brunette possessed.

"Skull," John said as soon as the man had turned back to face him. He thrust his arm out, gesturing to it as if Sherlock would think he was referring to something else.

The man only laughed, nodding.

He paused, watching John very carefully, eyes boring into the doctor. John shifted uncomfortably under the strength of his gaze, turning on his heel to fuss around with a box that looked very close to the point of tipping off the stool.

"Friend."

The voice was low, baritone in quality, slightly husky from lack of use. His 'r' went unpronounced and 'd' was over-enunciated. But it was understandable.

"You speak?" John asked, whipping back around to watch the man who looked even more embarrassed than he did earlier, awkward and, almost, shy.

"Obviously. One must fit in with the 'normal' people. You understand, I hope?" he asked, tentatively, almost scared that John would mock how he spoke. Throughout this his hands still moved, although not as fluidly, just the occasional sign scattered in.

"Yes, yes. Your speech is fine," John lied. It was understandable, but it was slurred and some of the words didn't form correctly. Like someone of a foreign tongue reading an English book out loud for their first time, but in a hurry. John cringed inwardly as he realised how much mocking the man would get for speech like that from most of the population.

Sherlock just scoffed in response, but looked slightly proud. Or maybe John was just imaging that.

"My family insisted that I learn to speak. I didn't want to, I was happy being Deaf," he went on to explain. "Years of speech therapy. I loathed it. The syntax irritated me as a child. Very different from sign language, you see."

"Did your family sign?"

"Yes, except my father. All the household staff were Level 1 in BSL. They used to call me," here he bought his hand to his forehead in the sign that John recognised as Devil Horns sign from rock concerts as a university student, "when they thought I was too irksome. It means 'devil'. They thought I was too noisy," he huffed out a humourless laugh.

John just smiled politely, unsure what to say.

The room fell into an awkward stillness.

"The records?" John asked lamely, pointing over to the nestled in the chair.

"My mother's. Sometimes I can feel the music, if the bass is very loud. She used to try to get me to feel it as a child. Gave them to me when I left for university," he smiled, as if reminiscing upon fond childhood memories.

John was reminded of his own childhood, where Harry had tried to learn how to play the drums and failed miserably, leaving the Watson family low on paracetamol. His own mother had encouraged John to learn how to play clarinet in secondary school, although John had admittedly been more tempted by the pretty flutist then his mother's pleas.

Sherlock must have a drastically different upbringing.

There was a deaf boy in John's class, back when he was about 10. He never signed; John didn't know if he could.

He spoke poorly and both students and teachers had struggled to understand what he said. John's best friend at the time, Henry, had tried befriending the boy but after several failed attempts at communication had resorted to teasing and mocking the child. The rest of his classmates had joined in, and after 3 months the boy had been pulled out of the school in order to be home-schooled. It had bothered John at the time, but he didn't want to be seen with The Idiot Deaf Boy. Thinking back on it now, John was filled with guilt and remorse.

The sound of a phone vibrating shook John out of his shameful memories, and he eyes darted over to Sherlock who was fishing in his back pocket before pulling out a smart looking iPhone.

He read the text quickly, tapping out a quick reply with dexterous fingers.

"My brother is here," he said, looking back over at John.

Before John could ever come up with a somewhat decent response a man appeared at the doorway, umbrella hooked in the crook of his elbow, hands already darting about in that strange, fluid movement that still amazed John.

This bizarre dance of the hands continued for a few more seconds before the man turned to study John closely.

"You don't sign, Sherlock tells me," he said, looking irritatingly smug as he did. His hands never once relented in their movement, despite him having to change his normal speech pacing to fit around it.

"Urm, no, no I don't," John answered. The man seemingly interpreted this information back to Sherlock.

"I hope you don't mind me interpreting for you, John. Lip-reading is hardly an accurate science and it's rather exhausting," said the man, glancing briefly over at his brother who's gaze was flickering between the man and John, eyes alight and curious. (2)

"Um, no, no, that's fine. Tell him I'm sorry," John responded, awkward in such a situation.

The man laughed, short and harsh.

"My, my, you're not used to this are you John? You can tell Sherlock you're sorry yourself, it is considered rude otherwise."

"Oh, right, yeah, of course. Sorry Sherlock, this can't be easy, I suppose," John apologised, turning around to face Sherlock who seemed amused.

Sherlock's hands started moving in a mess of shapes that John wasn't sure could ever make words or sentences, never mind statements and speeches.

"He finds you amusing, and I have to say I agree. My name is Mycroft, by the way. I am Sherlock's elder brother."

"Yes, he mentioned. That you were his older brother, that is."

"Of course. He'd probably refer to me as," Mycroft crooked his two index fingers, curving upwards, placing his right fist over his left before moving it upwards, "It was the name he gave me soon after he started university. It means 'umbrella'. I'm sure he has far more…unsatisfactory terms for me now."

Sherlock smirked over at the man, cupping a hand over his forehead and moving outwards, almost like he was demonstrating the concept of a unicorn horn. Mycroft glared over at him.

"It does not mean unicorn, John," he informed the doctor, and John could tell from his interpretation that unicorn did indeed end up with a closed fist, "I'm sure your imagination can provide you with an answer, or Sherlock could tell you. Dare I ask John, has Sherlock told you of his name?"

John nodded, hesitantly imitating the sign that the curly-haired man had shown him earlier.

Mycroft looked on in distaste, turning on his heel back to his brother. Words were momentarily forgotten for Mycroft's agitated signing and Sherlock's languid, yet somehow still irritated, responses.

"Are you aware of how a sign name works, John?"

"No, not really. It's a nickname, of sorts, I think."

"Yes, I suppose it is of sorts. Every type of sign language will have different rules regarding sign names, as far as I am aware in ASL the sign name must be an initial and area of which you are from. (3) Much like how the name "Leonardo di Vinci" means "Leonardo from Vinci". In BSL the sign name is more creative, based on a certain trait or obvious characteristic. They change throughout the years, Sherlock insisted on using the sign for 'fat'," Mycroft puffed out his cheeks, thumbs pointing out from his sternum before going around to his side as if imitating a large pot-belly "regarding me as a child. We called him 'curly'," he curved all his fingers inwards into a claw shape and put both palms to either side of his head moving downwards in wiggling, wavy movement, "in regards to his hair. Tell me, John, have you any idea what his current sign name that he uses for himself means?"

John shook his head.

Mycroft nodded, looking mildly smug. He always seemed to look smug, even in a language so expressive. Like the cat that had gotten the metaphorical cream.

"It means 'freak', he acquired it in university. Still, it is better than some other names he had," he ended with distaste.

Sherlock looked irritated now, curving his forefinger, fisting the rest of his fingers; he dug his finger into his inner forearm, sliding upwards slightly.

Almost as if he was shooting up.

Mycroft recoiled slightly and John couldn't miss the slight pleasure that Sherlock seemed to take in upsetting his brother.

"Yes, Sherlock, that is exactly what I meant and you know it," he muttered.

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><p>1) A capital 'D' in 'deaf' means that the person is a member of the deaf community. Basically they sign. I didn't just take a fancy.<p>

2) Lip-reading is tiring work, far from an exact science. The most experienced lip-reader can only ever pick up about 30% of the conversation so a lot of it is based of context.

3) I'm not 100% certain about the ASL name thing. That what I remember being told a while ago. Also that only deaf people can give you your name.

If anyone has any questions then please PM me.

Out of interest, did anyone watch Switched at Birth recently? It may be in ASL, but I kinda like it.

Huge thank you for reading and please review because this story is going a bit haywire and people criticising it would be a fantastic help.

The next chapter will be up very soon, for once!


	3. Chapter 3

Huge delay, I am very, very sorry. I have a list of excuses, ailing health and the London Riots being the headers.

This chapter would have taken a lot longer if it wasn't for the fantastic reviews (particularly three people on Tumblr who really made my day). So thank you very, very much to everyone who reviewed!

Mycroft worried about his brother. He truly did, and although he mainly told himself it was because of his brother's deafness, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd have been like this regardless of Sherlock's ability to hear.

It was so easy to pass of so many of Sherlock's problems onto his deafness. His lack of friends growing up, most certainly, could be blamed on the fact he couldn't communicate with most of his peers. His lack of stability as he grew up into a teenager could also be put on the fact he changed to a school for the deaf after their father's death when Sherlock was 13.

Their father had not been a particularly nice one.

Their father had never liked Sherlock using sign language, insisting that he try to speak, that he lip-read all the time. He had made Sherlock grow his dark curls long, a stark contrast to his brothers' neatly cut hair, in some poor attempt to hide his hearing aid, a habit that still, Mycroft noticed with no slight amount of (although he dare not admit it) _ pity,_ lingered with Sherlock long after the hearing aids had been forgotten and neglected.

Visitors to the house were never informed of Sherlock's deafness; instead he was made out to be stupid and ignorant, although even as adults neither sibling could understand how that was a better impression than having a deaf child. But as his father had said many a time to Sherlock's long suffering mother, "one simply mustn't allow him to close himself off from normal people, he's just not concentrating hard enough!"

Mycroft had been sent to the local prep-school, Westbourne House; a smart, public school set in the countryside with boarders allowed from the age of seven years, following in the footsteps of every other "normal" Holmes boy throughout the generations.

Sherlock was, instead, home-schooled as a child by an elderly, greying tutor called David Hynes.

Hynes had a deaf wife and had taught Sherlock BSL as well as the subjects that father did approve of.

At eleven years of age Sherlock was sent to Harrow with an interpreter. Mycroft wasn't sure if his little brother would have been able to make friends should he have been hearing, but he certainly didn't make any being Deaf. Not the creepy deaf kid who spoke like a drunk.

Their father died when Sherlock was twelve and Mycroft was 19 and studying PPE in Cambridge. His death was a loss that not many people mourned, their weary mother included. A mother that had always blamed her son's deafness on herself.

He was pulled out of Harrow immediately by his mother and sent to attend St. John's Boarding School for Deaf Boys, a decision that Mycroft backed up, although he questioned this on a number of occasions. One memory that stood out vividly in his mind was the headmistress wrote to tell him that Sherlock had been teased by his peers and locked in an abandoned classroom. With very few hearing people in the building no one had heard him bang against the wooden door. A cleaner had found him 16 hours after he'd been locked in.

Sherlock had refused to respond to any of Mycroft's increasingly anxious letters.

He had finished secondary school the same way he started. Very much alone.

Mycroft had poked and prodded at him, trying to encourage him to attend college and then continue his studies and to go onto university. Chemistry, Mycroft had said, you'd be a huge asset to the field.

Sherlock had simply glared, pressing his right thumb to his tongue, jabbing in aggressively into his left palm before pointing his fist, thumb still outstretched over his shoulder.

Such crude ways of asking Mycroft to leave didn't stop the man from bothering him.

_Deaf clubs, Sherlock. It would help that hobby of yours, detective work. Knowing how people work and all that._

_Deaf pubs, even. I know you're underage, but I'm not naive enough to believe that will stop you. There's one nearby, I can arrange a lift for you._

_Sport. There's a boxing club on Wednesday morning in the town hall._

Eventually Mycroft gave up on his little brother.

Sherlock left mainstream education aged 15 and 8 months.

He left home 3 months, 12 days later on his sixteenth birthday.

Mycroft had kept up with the boy, if only on CCTV, occasionally sending in help when he'd taken too much cocaine or a deal had gone a bit wrong. One night he had to watch his little brother resort to more…desperate and unsavoury, to say the least, measures in a bid to fuel his habits. Mycroft made sure he was never short on money after that.

Aged eighteen Sherlock OD'ed in a strange man's house**. **A lethal mix of coke and morphine. His heart gave out once on his way over the hospital and he'd been put into a medically induced coma for four days afterwards. After that Mycroft forced him into rehab.

After that whole incident Mycroft had also taken the liberty of tweaking some university entrant letters. Sherlock was accepted into Oxford to study chemistry. He dropped out after five terms, diving straight back into the drugs that his older brother had hoped he left behind.

Mycroft still remembered how immensely weary he had felt after the news had been relayed to him. It was that tired, hopeless fog, a lethargy that provided him an excuse to take the rest of the day off work.

But there had never been any friends. There had been countless drug dealers and numerous, faceless people he hung around with for the sake of being able to scab a piece of crack of them. But not friends. Never friends.

That's why Mycroft had dropped everything to act as a terp when he had heard the news of a man, a rather interesting man at that, was considering sharing a flat with his brother.

Korea would simply have to wait a few more hours.

Upon arrival and the flat two-hundred-and-twenty-one 'b' was greeted by an apartment that was small, cluttered with mess, some of which Mycroft recognized as being his own. Books that had gone missing when Sherlock had stayed with him, a laptop that certainly belonged to Mycroft at some stage in the last trimester. His favourite tie lay half melted by a Bunsen burner on the kitchen table.

Other items he simply recognized from their childhood, a stuffed moose head that belonged to their great grandfather, where Sherlock has super-glued the headphones on, convinced the moose the listening in on his music. He had been high on acid at the time. **(1)** All of mother's old records were stacked precariously on the worn-out armchair, most likely second hand (Mycroft was glad for the small bottle of antiseptic hand gel that resided in his pocket.)

And there was this man, propped up awkwardly up on a cane, a small crease forming between his brow whenever he shuffled to change his position.

Blond hair, a jumper the colour of porridge, worn denim jeans, hospital issued cane. Bland, much like porridge Mycroft supposed. He held the cane in his right hand, although it was also his right leg that was damaged. He should be holding it in his left, easier balance, less strain. The man was a doctor; he knew this, so obviously his left shoulder had been injured. Slightly more interesting, he supposed.

Overall Doctor John Watson was not the man Mycroft had been expecting. He'd expected a man in his early 20's, straight out of university, middle class upbringing, if he was able to afford a flat share with a postcode like NW1, a young man who was in slight awe of Sherlock, most likely a Deaf boy too then, but mainly wanted a quick way to drugs and money.

John didn't tick any of those boxes, bar to possessing male genetalia.

What had interested Mycroft the most, though, was what he heard whilst standing on the staircase, texting his little brother to warn him of his arrival.

Sherlock had been talking, talking to John.

For as long as he could remember Sherlock had only, very rarely, spoken orally to a stranger, and only when it was absolutely unavoidable. Speech therapy had been nothing short of a nightmare for him; such slow progress, people watching him, patronizing him. Mycroft remembered being aged 14 with a 7 year old Sherlock sat cross legged on the floor of his bedroom, trying to form words with frustrating inaccuracy. R's were forgotten, pauses too long between words, intonation non-existent. The first syllable of each sentence seemed to be dropped in a rush to finish the sentence. Such sessions usually resulted in temper tantrums where Sherlock would scream as loudly as he could just to watch everyone else flinch back from such a noise. His throat would later be soothed by mummy's lemon and honey tea.

By the time he was 14 he had had enough of the seemingly endless stream of therapists, each giving up one after the other, tired of the boy's sulking during the sessions. Not even mummy could persuade him to give it one more shot and with their father dead no one demanded that he do it.

There had been other therapists, too. Ones that Sherlock had loathed. A terp had sat in on them all, after a failure to find a shrink fluent in the language that the nine year old boy so required.

Mycroft remembered Sherlock reluctantly passing on his diagnoses clearly**, **his hands facing outwards, framing his face before pointing down, into the chest his gaze meaningfully averted. At the time is had only mean _introverted_. A characteristic, definitely. But signs don't work just like that, Mycroft knew. Interpretation was what it said on the tin, not a translation. When he has asked for clarification Sherlock had glared before signing again, this time a 'v' shaped hands pointing together in front of his chest, twisting alternately from the wrists. It was a sign to indicate lack of eye contact. He added a hasty finger spelled A S at the end.

Sherlock had wished to challenge the shrink, claiming he was wrong, that the questions were different. Questions such as "do you feel as if people stare at you?" _(I don't think they do, I know they do. It's because I sign, it's because they think I'm an idiot, not because I'm paranoid)._

The shrink's own observations hadn't helped either. _Sherlock is an extremely blunt child, stares incessantly and does not sugar coat his meaning._Of course Sherlock had stared; he had been trying to gauge everything about a man. Reading his body language, facial expressions, even trying to lip-read, although the old fool had a stupid handle-bar moustache that made the task nigh-impossible. And of course Sherlock was blunt; it was part of the Deaf culture, it was hard to mince words when one used signs and obvious facial expression to get the point across.

In the end Mycroft had destroyed all the files mentioning the entire thing and neither sibling had brought up the topic again.

He had never forgotten the diagnoses though. It had been easy to pin all of Sherlock's problems on two things.

His deafness and his believed Aspergers Syndrome (2).

That was when Mycroft had really begun worrying. When he was just sixteen years old and his little brother was nine**.** He had made sure to protect his baby brother from all the dangers in the world, a task which he eventually failed miserably at. Mycroft had painted an image of the life Sherlock would leave, a miserable, pitiful thing. A forensic scientist or some kind of police work, although Mycroft was aware that he would have to pull strings on the latter, deaf police were not allowed (3).

He had turned out so much worse for such a long time. Before that policeman, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, had turned up and taken the misguided imbecile under his wing. Before he got a job that he excelled at, that he loved.

Before, it now appears, he met John Watson. John Watson, in all his ignorance of sign and of the Deaf community.

John Watson. The first man his brother had willingly spoken to without due cause sincehe told Mycroft to eff off, aged fourteen when Mycroft had tried to push him into speech therapy.

Mycroft hadn't expected to hear his voice again. Not his brother's voice, now apparently broken. More slurred and incorrect than Mycroft ever remembered it being, to the point Mycroft could barely understand what he was saying.

John Watson seemingly could.

John Watson was good enough for Sherlock.

Therefore, John Watson was certainly good enough for Mycroft.

This idea was told to me by my wonderful beta, OddlySane. It has since become my head canon.

The signs described as for autism. I'm not a medical terp. So I just added on a finger spelled A S for Aspergers Syndrome

I'm not sure on the laws now, but at the time Sherlock would have been a teenager, HoH people weren't allowed in, never mind deaf people.

Thank you so much for reading 3

As always, reviews are really useful!

Whether you want certain topics breached or explained, whether you just wanted to say you hated it, it's all really good feedback! My inbox is also open to everyone and anyone.

I think it's probably obvious that I struggled somewhat with this one and I'm worried I tried to tackle too many subjects in such a short chapter. The next one will hopefully be more based on the episode and everything, rather than background information. If people want to see certain things happen then please, please tell me!

Also, one last thing, I think this was posted on the kink meme site. If someone could give me the link to the topic that would be really, really great because I can't find it anywhere! Thank you very much.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The delay on this update is shameless. I can compile a list of excuses, but I am sick and writing in hospital waiting rooms or after long days at school don't appeal.

As always this would not have been updated if it wasn't for the masses of beautiful, helpful and wonderful reviews I received. Whilst I hoped I answered anyone with a question. I may have skipped a few, if so, just ask again and hopefully I won't be so featherbrained!

I can also upload images of certain signs used within the story (and signs you're just curious to know). Just ask and I'll be happy to do it :D

* * *

><p>Mycroft soon left, after making sure Sherlock was caring for Conan, the smart looking service dog John had met earlier, and ultimately not forgetting to feed the poor thing. (1)<p>

That is, at least, how John had interpreted the entire event. After the customary introductions had been made and Mycroft had seemingly approved of John (_why _exactly was a reason that John had yet to figure out) he had seemed to lose all interest in the blonde haired man, instead reverting all of his attention back to his raven-haired sibling with a renewed vigor.

Their conversations took place through surprisingly loud communication. Sign language was a unexpectedly noisy form of communication, peacefulness accentuated by slapping of hands, smacking of lips and stamping feet. Try as he might, John struggled to keep up by only using facial expressions (although he had to suppress a laugh when Mycoft's previously serious face twisted into one of cynical, manic glee) and he instead chose to occupy himself by flicking through the piles of books that balanced precariously on each available surface, not all of which were flat, either.

Books on medicine that John remembered from his university days, books on forensic sciences, books written in languages that John barely recognized, dictionaries of BNZSL's (2) , books on history and science and art and geology. John eyes paused in their exploration as he noted, with slight confusion, two thin books of sheet music.

He slowly pulled one out of its niche, unsure if his apparent new roommate would be bothered by his nosiness.

The book seemed to be aimed at a child, a young child beginning to learn a new instrument. It was baby-blue in colour, with a cartoon drawing of an owl playing a fiddle on the front.

Flicking open to the first page he noticed the words "Sherlock Holmes" written in dark, inky, spidery script. The first few pages were covered in small penciled-in notes along the staves of music and tattered violin fingering charts.

The doctor was so engrossed in his new discovery he didn't notice the taller man creep up behind him.

A long, pale hand appeared on his elbow and John jerked back in shock.

Sherlock jerked back, as if he had been burnt, blushing awkwardly, a painfully apologetic expression on his face and his right fist making circular motions on his chest.

"Um, no, sorry. I'm just being nosy," John finished lamely, tapping the side of his nose as to emphasise what he meant.

He lifted one hand up, giving the 'okay' sign, smiling cautiously. He carefully cleared his throat before continuing orally.

"My brother, he's left," he croaked out.

"Oh, right, okay. Yeah. He seems…nice. Enough," John said, trying to turn his embarrassment into a bit of a joke.

Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards in amusement, his eyes drawn towards the book in John's hands.

The shy smile disappeared, replaced with a look of questioning and caution.

"It's yours?" John questioned, pushing the book towards him to illustrate his point.

A quick nod. No change in expression, just careful and precise analytical calculation.

"You play? Even though you're deaf?"

A shake of the head now, tossing those dark curls wildly.

"Right…" the doctor said, shoving the music book back amidst the shelf.

"I wasn't born deaf. I was hearing until I was three. I started violin lessons shortly before that," came the stuttering voice again.

"Oh, right, yes, of course. Do you mind me asking how? I mean, I get it if you don't, sorry, I'll shut up now. None of my business-"

"Meningitis with complications. My cochlear is dead, no implant. I was left with a nanny, inexperienced. I was a fussy child, she didn't notice a difference," he finished with a smirk, as if the whole thing was a bit funny, really, but you simply had to be there.

John hadn't been there.

This whole discussion was quickly brought to a halt.

"Sherlock!" a loud voice bellowed up the stairs.

Conan, the small cocker spaniel, now free of his burgundy coat, jumped up, bouncing over to Sherlock. He jumped onto the man, tapping a paw against the man's leg before rushing to the doorway, looking from Sherlock to the man approaching up the stairs with bright, intelligent eyes.

Sherlock darted across to the doorway, grinning widely when he saw who it was.

A silver-haired man appeared at the entrance, nodding quickly over at John before turning straight to Sherlock, who was watching with keen interest, positively vibrating with unseen energy.

The man made a short sign, somewhat similar to the shower-scene from the film Psycho. John half expected the infamous "eek-eek-eek" followed by a sign that, most likely, meant the number '3'.

Sherlock's grin was now capable of splitting his face into two.

The silver-haired man thrust forward a sheet of paper with handwritten notes, obviously aimed at Sherlock before turning to John, making a series of awkward gestures.

"What?"

"Oh, shit, sorry, I thought you were deaf," the grey-haired man bumbled, looking confused at this new turn on events.

"No, I'm not. Obviously. Somewhat. John, John Watson," he offered, extending his hand.

The man took it, giving it a brief, if firm, shake before dropping it.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock here is our best man, so I'm gonna have to steal him from you for a while," he said, throwing a look over his shoulder to Sherlock who had seemed to finish reading his note and was now donning a heavy, charcoal coloured coat.

Sherlock made an impatient gesture towards Lestrade and the DI simply rolled his eyes before dashing out of the building.

The taller man stood by the door, knotting his scarf around his neck when he looked over to John.

"I'm a detective. Consultant."

"Consultant?"

"Yes. They sign my name for the job. Invented it, only one in the world." (3)

"What is it, exactly?"

"The police are idiots. When they get stuck or botch up, which happens more often than you imaging, they come to me, for help."

"Couldn't you not just be, I dunno, a detective?"

"I'm deaf. They don't want deaf coppers."

"Oh," John faltered. He hadn't known this, although, he supposed, it made sense. The world wasn't always fair.

They both knew that.

Sherlock bent down to strap up Conan, wrapping him in the burgundy jacket again, the dog putting up no sign of a struggle.

"Later, John," he said, smiling awkwardly once again, before bounding nosily down the stairs and slamming the door behind him.

John threw himself down onto the worn out armchair, huffing out a long tired breath.

He felt exhausted already and he'd only been with the man a few hours.

He dated a French exchange student for a very brief amount of time, when he was taking his A-Levels. She had soon demoted them both to friendship, after declaring the language barrier was "just too much". To be quite crudely honest, John hadn't cared much for their chats and philosophical debates. Their relationship had meant a completely different thing to him.

But this was his flatmate, not some pretty foreign girl that he could satisfy with a kiss and a cuddle. Although that wouldn't be unbearab- John shook himself, as his unwatched thoughts took an unexpected twist in exactly the wrong direction.

He coughed awkwardly, as if to expel the thought from his mind, short fingers drumming against the threadbare arm of the chair, his other hand resuming it's almost automatic massage of his thigh, a vain attempt to dispel the twisted, hot pain that resided deep within the_ rectus femoris _muscle.

The front door slammed again and John recognised Sherlock's heavy footsteps, echoed by a much lighter scattering of paws.

"John?" the man called, although it didn't quite have the same intonation as a question. Another skill the man hadn't quite mastered during his years of speech therapy.

John stood up, the pain in his leg temporarily forgotten in the presence of this new man.

The doctor nodded, quick and sharp.

"You've seen a lot of deaths, messy ones."

John wasn't sure if it was meant a statement or not, so he nodded, just to be sure.

"Yes, I have. Too many," John elaborated when Sherlock did not seem satisfied with his nod, tilting his head forward, eyebrows knitted. (4)

"Want to see more?"

For a split second John could only think of "no!", as images of deaths and pain and blood and wounds flooded his mind.

Then he saw this man, whose face seemed to express everything he ever thought yet still seemed strangely closed off, all traces of emotion wiped off in a millisecond.

This man, who was quite possibly a genius, if a bit mad (then again, weren't all genii supposedly mad?).

This man, this tall, eccentric, bundle of energy that at least mimicked a man, was asking him, John Watson, crippled an bitter and quite frankly _lonely, _was asking for his help.

So the heaved "Oh _God, yes." _That was emitted involuntarily from his lips was not altogether unjustified.

John Watson was, he thought with self-loathing as he trekked after the mad man and his dog, John Watson and his third metal leg, was easily flattered.

Far too easily flattered.

But what of it?

* * *

><p>(1) This is kind of based upon he "phrase" for "dead dog". Which makes me laugh uncontrollably every time. Anyone that I have taught BSL to will know this. It is one of the first things I will show them.<p>

(2) BNZL's is the language group to which BSl belongs to. It also includes Ausland(Australian Sign Language) and NZSL (New Zealand Sign Language). I think Auslan and BSL share 92% of it's vocabulary, or something like that.

(3) He's just that bloody cool.

(4) Interesting fact; if the signer tilts their head back with eyebrows raised it is either a rhetorical question or they only want a yes/no answer, and not your life story. If it's tilted forward with eyebrows knitted, they want more details.

As always reviews, I really do thrive of them. And questions. Yay for questions :D

Thank you all very much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it to a certain extent!


	5. Chapter 5

Slow, slow, slow update. I am sorry! I have another million excuses. Although I am no longer as bad I was in regards to illness (yay for finding a treatment after so many years!) I am very busy with school. I have just finished my Christmas tests though I felt an update was due

I hope you enjoy!

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><p>The taxi journey was somewhat uneventful.<p>

Sherlock had turned out to be adept at texting demands, deft fingers swiftly typing out his chosen address, waving the mobile's screen in the face of the cabbie.

There was a brief moment where John was not sure that the dog was going to be allowed on, but Sherlock seemed almost used to such a response, simply rolling his eyes when the cabbie began to kick up a fuss, and bringing up a pre-typed message.

Eventually all three of them were bundled into the car, Conan curled up neatly at the foot of his master watching John with bored brown eyes.

Unlike the dog's, Sherlock's eyes never stilled in their constant quest to note everything.

At one point a pale hand flew to the car door, resting on the speaker. The radio continued to blare out Capital FM. Pale fingers moved up to the door frame, where the vibrations were more prominent, and rested there for a while before falling back into his lap to resume his fidgeting state.

It was somewhat awkward, John soon acknowledged, when their glances met, which was far too often due to Sherlock's almost frantic watching. John would smile politely, a mere tightening of the lips stretched over teeth perfected over years of work as a doctor, whilst Sherlock would smirk, nodding in amusement.

After this happened for the eighth time Sherlock's hands came back up to chest height, moving slowly for John's benefit. He smiled after his hands came to rest, tilting his head as John as if to enquire if the shorter man understood any of what he just tried to say..

John shook his head, shrugging and smiling apologetically.

The taller man cleared his throat, hands coming back up to chest height and moving again, only this time with audio.

"In Deaf culture. It is rude, to break eye contact," John managed to pick out this sign, he thought, of two v-shaped hand signals breaking parallel with each other (1) "not like this, of course. But when you sign. To break eye contact when signing is rude. Like you talking with your voice and-," Sherlock broke off here, to duck his head, covering his eyes and shaking it from side to side.

John laughed at the man's antics, at his kind attempts to make him feel more comfortable around this _thing_. This _disability_. Surely it should be the other way around?

Sherlock let out a quiet chuckle, before going back to his restless watching.

* * *

><p>The crime scene was a quiet hub of people, all professional and none of them looking as lost as John felt, dressed in his porridge coloured knitted jumper. A sheep amongst a flock of uniformed professionals.<p>

Sherlock, however, was as confident of his place there as much as the uniformed officers were, strutting in proudly, Conan trotting alongside him.

John hobbled precariously on his cane, wary of the wet pavement, cursing under his breath.

A young woman, pretty, John thought absentmindedly, eyed up Sherlock with no small amount of disdain from where she was stationed along a make-shift barrier of police tape.

She coped the sign name that John had been shown earlier ("_It means freak", Mycroft had told him only a few hours ago)_, glaring daggers at him.

"Freak's here!" she cried over her shoulder, towards a group of people who groaned and swore in response, the majority turned carefully away from the consulting detective so he wouldn't be able to see their lips move.

Sherlock scowled at the woman, ducking under the police tape and holding it up for John.

A grouchy looking man dressed from head to toe in a light blue forensics suit stood in the doorway of the house where the activity was focused around. He beckoned Sherlock over with a jerk of his head, never once looking pleased.

Sherlock turned to John, spelling the letters A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N out slowly before pointing back towards the man. He then pointed between himself and the man again and interlocked two looped fingers, encircled together. _With_.

As soon as the two men were within 5 feet of each other hands began flailing, although admittedly in more precise movements than flailing.

Sherlock seemed to be getting more and more agitated, movements getting wider and facial expressions more exasperated. After several moments of this, and John inwardly hoping that his new flat-mate would not explode _(because who would he split rent with then?) _the consulting detective whirled around on the balls of his feet, turning to face the same glowering woman who had called out on his arrival earlier.

Sherlock stabbed a finger towards her then back towards the now bewildered Anderson before making an almost obscene gesture, his hand flat near his groin, circling around and his head thrown back in emphasized pleasure. (2)

It was fairly obvious what he meant, police officers looked away, embarrassed for their colleagues. The young woman blushed, shaking her head furiously, turning to her faux-oblivious colleagues, looking for back up.

Anderson was a dark red colour, more from anger than embarrassment if John was any judge, and he quickly resumed his now far more frantic signing, complete with aggressive slapping of the palms and fingers jabbed into Sherlock's chest, his face contorted into an expression of pure anger and resentment.

Lestrade chose this moment to appear, looking irritated and harassed, almost like one of the many tired mothers that passed through the clinic doors each day, John thought absently.

He tapped Sherlock smartly on his forearm, frowning at his conduct with Anderson before asking them both to follow him.

Sherlock paused to beckon John over, much to Lestrade's displeasure.

"For God's sake Sherlock, no! I can't bring him in. He'll have to wait outside with the dog," he said, exasperated. Sherlock's gaze flicked between his lips and Anderson's hands, which were translating his boss' spoken words.

Sherlock shook his head furiously, signing towards Anderson who translated in monotone to Lestrade, adding his own comment when he felt like his opinion was required.

"_No, no, I need an assistant_. He really doesn't, let's be honest. _Anderson won't work with me! _He's always so whiny, I'm working with him fine, especially considering he's such a bloody prick! _I want John with me! Leave Anderson outside! _Oh, that's nice. Great. At least he doesn't want the dog in this time. That was absurd!"

Sherlock only glared, not commenting, presumably used to his less than professional interpreter.

Lestrade heaved a long-suffering sigh.

"Fine! But in out, quick!"

The dark haired man beamed with manic glee, pulling John inside the building and tossing Conan's lead to a bewildered policeman stationed outside the door.

John cursed inwardly when he saw the tiling on the floor, tugging his arm out of Sherlock's iron grip. He limped cautiously behind the now far-too-excited man. Wet canes on tiles were always a bit of a nightmare, although the danger eased quickly after a few steps.

Sherlock paused, allowing John to get his bearings before bounding up the stairs, leaving John to haul himself up and trying not to notice the numerous other police people pushing past him.

John didn't think he'd ever get used to this cripple lark.

By the time he got up there, Sherlock was already busy working, crouched over the body of a lady suited in a frankly lurid shade of fuchsia pink.

He danced around her, hovering precariously above her, Anderson stood leaning against the door with his arms folded. If he wasn't a grown man John would have said he was pouting.

The consulting detective raised his head, beckoning John over.

As soon as the two men were eye-level Sherlock signed, both index and middle finger stretched out palms facing inwards before dropping down from shoulder height to stomach level simultaneously. He mouthed the word "DEAD", looking pointedly at the woman in case his meaning was not clear enough.

So this is why he asked John to join him.

The doctor bent over the young women, sniffing. Smell of vomit, certainly, but no smell of drink.

Her position, face down onto the hard, musty wooden floor indicated that asphyxiation was likely. She hadn't moved, she had vomited whilst unconscious. Choked on her own sick.

Drugs or seizure.

There was a brief moment of pride when John found himself able to sign "DRUGS" to his new flat mate, repeating the sign Mycroft has used earlier, assuming that was what Mycroft had meant. He stuck to finger-spelling S-E-I-Z-U-R-E. Sherlock smiled a little at John's pathetic attempts at communication. The expression of happiness seemed inappropriate, given the situation, but John was glad to see it all the same.

Anderson coughed, not being particularly subtle so John allowed him to interpret back to Sherlock what his beliefs were.

Sherlock abruptly straightened up, brushing down his plastic suit and began signing over to Anderson who once again took on the task of translating in monotone.

"_Man, 5'7. You can tell by the footprints. She's married, unhappily, the ring is clean inside._ He didn't even touch the goddamn ring, how does he know that? _Victim in her early 30's, professional. Media, because of the colour her clothing. Travelled from Cardiff__** .**_No, wait, stop, stop. Why? How do you know?"

Sherlock paused in his movements to glare at the man, walking over to jut a phone, a weather app open on the screen, into his face, signing with his one free hand.

"Oh, it's raining in Cardiff, and windy. She has an umbrella," John recognized the sign for umbrella here, "so and didn't use it. Therefore windy. Collar is damp, she turned it up against the wind and it's only been windy and raining in Cardiff lately. Right…_she's here for one night. Mud tracks down the back of her leg, small case. _He wants to know where the pink case is, boss,' Anderson called over his shoulder to the grey haired man, slouched and staring at Sherlock with hidden relief.

"There is no case, tell him there is no case."

Sherlock pulled a face of utter contempt and despair at them, his hands never pausing.

"He says there must be. Something about it being pink…um. Oh, she's dressed in pink therefore the case _must _be pink. Yeah, sounds like sound logic to me," he finished off, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Sherlock watched the scene with no small amount of increasing frustration.

When no one provided him with the details on the whereabouts of this assumed suitcase, he slapped a balled fist into his palm, a display of his anger at the Metropolitan's Police Force's incompetence and bounded out off the door, his coat tails swishing behind him.

Lestrade groaned and Anderson started bitching about having to act as a 'terp for the "bloody lunatic show-offy twat". They both left together.

That left John behind, perched unsteadily on his cane with the dull, familiar muscular ache creeping back into his thigh.

Bugger.

'Bloody stairs,' John cursed as he set off, alone, not forgetting to pick up the dog on his way out, ignoring the police officer's indignant cried about being left with it.

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><p>(1) Sign language is a fairly…visual language, obviously. But something more than that. I like this sign because it's a great example of that. Each 'v' shaped is a pair of eyes and they mime out looking away from each other.<p>

(2) I'm fairly sure you can guess what this sign means. It is the sign I use, at least, for 'giving head'. It's a fairly slang term so I don't know how widely used it is.

As always, reviews are so much appreciated!

I have been completely taken back by the enormous amount of positive feedback this has so far received! I do love everyone's opion and anecdotes!

I am trying to compile a simple list of websites to help anyone study BSL for free. PM me if you are interested

Unfortunately one of my favorite youtube channels for BSL has been taken down. It had been re-uploaded, with a few of the original 400+ videos (LeesBSLSongs), so if you all go and subscribe I think he'd really like and you'd all really, really like it!

I know a good few of you have asked questions but has eaten a good deal of messages. Please just ask again :D

And yes, I do have a Tumblr for those asking (hailsy dot tumblr dot com)


	6. Chapter 6

This is a ridiculously late update, I know, and I'm sorry. I was diagnosed with an illness that had a huge impact on me and have been struggling with that, work and my studies and ultimately failing at all three. C'est la vie!

Thank you so much to every single reviewer, alert and favourite! You have no idea how much I appreciated it and the last few reviews have really spurred me on this week!

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><p>John was not a desperate man. He flat out refused to tail a man around that clearly didn't want him around like some pathetic lost puppy.<p>

He had been to war, shot in the shoulder even, for God's sake. He was made of tougher stuff than that and he was not, not, _not _ going to chase him around.

No way.

If Sherlock bloody Holmes wanted his assistance again, Sherlock bloody Holmes could contact him.

He had the man's bloody dog anyway, so he had to contact him. But that wasn't the point. No way.

It was with this determined frame of mind that John trudged home with Conan. The first three taxis had refused him, claiming that he wasn't allowed the dog, despite John's angry protests that it was a service dog, that it was illegal to refuse him on the grounds of the dog.

It was fourth time lucky for the ex solider. A young taxi driver, the type of young that made John feel just a bit too old, a bit too grey, had reluctantly allowed the dog in when John lied, claiming it to be a seizure dog and threatened to call the police if he was refused. Perhaps the threat was a bit too much, but it was starting to bucket and his leg was at him and all he bloody wanted as a cup of tea and a book and his pain pills that sat hidden in the cutlry drawers, a million miles away from Lauriston Gardens.

It was 11pm when John's phone bleeped, punctuating the otherwise peaceful and calm atmosphere. The dog ran over to him, much to his confusion, before John belatedly realized that the dog was attempting to alert him to the sound. If John was more awake he would have found that amazing, thinking back to his old pet dog that urinated on herself every time a mug smashed.

The phone screen read that he had received one new text from an unknown number

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH_

John hesitated for a moment, looking between the TV and the steaming mug of tea. The dry, thick woolen jumper was deliciously warm and the heating was turned up, making the room just that perfect temperature for sleeping. Coronation Street was on and the rain continued to hammer down relentlessly outside.

But the tea was slightly too weak, his cuff of the jumper was fraying, Coronation Street was repeated tomorrow afternoon and he never really liked it much anyway and the heating was about to go bust, judging by the clanging noise the pipes were making.

Another text jolted him out of his reverie.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

So, the decision was made for him, that was John's excuse. He didn't really have a choice. Not _really. _It could easily be an emergency, and John had taken an oath as a doctor to never harm another person, and this may kind of be breaking that oath, if you read between the lines and squinted a bit.

Besides, the dog was sure to be getting hungry having not been fed all night, and perhaps all day. John had no idea what to feed the thing, he certainly wasn't forking out for a tin of Pedigree, at 86p a can in Asda.

So the dog was put back in his burgundy coat and clipped onto his leash and they both vacated the miserable little halfway house, making their way back into the unfriendly weather. The rain continued to pelt down onto the dirty pavement, pedestrians darting about under coats pulled over their head and umbrellas threatened to poke out a careless person's eye.

John was just about to start the already incredibly irritating task of finding a cab that would allow both him and mutt on without a fuss (how Sherlock manages it every day, he didn't know) when a large, incredibly ominous black car rolled up in front of him.

One tinted window rolled down to reveal Mycroft Holmes and John had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing at the drama and cliché of it all.

'Doctor Watson, if you don't mind,' the passenger door was opened smoothly, Mycroft looking at is pointedly.

John hauled himself in, pulling in his injured leg with his hands, the rain already taking its toll on the tired muscle once again and John thought longingly back to the heat pad left in his room. Conan hopped in, sitting up beside him and shaking water droplets all over the undoubtedly expensive upholstery much to the doctor's amusement.

'It's John, please,' he corrected, with a smile that looked undoubtedly fake.

Mycroft smiled tightly.

'John, of course,' he drawled, 'where are you headed to?'

'Your brother.'

'Oh? That's rather good news,' he said, and he did look genuinely pleased. Albeit in a sort of strange, smug manner, 'I assume you have considered the problems that could arise with cohabitating with a deaf person, John?'

John shrugged noncommittally. He was a man used to adversity, and whilst the whole thing did leave him a little uneasy, he also knew he was more uncomfortable with his lack of knowledge as opposed to the fact the man was deaf. John fancied himself as a can-do-anything sort of bloke, try anything once and all that, so this suddenly rather large gap in his knowledge left him feeling a little lost.

'What is the main challenge facing you?'

'What is this, an interview?' John laughed, a little surprised by the serious tone the other man had suddenly adopted.

'Of sorts, yes. He is my brother, Doctor Watson. I worry.'

'Yeah, I'm sure you do, but he can make his own decisions, right?'

Mycroft pulled a face, looking like he was sucking on a wasp.

'One would like to think…but getting straight back to the point. I have prepared some literature for you, regarding Deaf culture and sign language. You have been signed up to a Level 1 BSL evening class in Chelsea, travel and costs have been arranged and paid for, assuming you're willing.'

The tone of his voice left almost no argument and it was just as well that John was only happy to take an opportunity to expand his knowledge. And perhaps a chance to meet new people, certainly a chance to add another skill to his CV. Competition for jobs in London was tough, even for a highly qualified doctor such as himself, and John refused to allow Sherlock to pay rent alone. He knew he certainly couldn't afford rent on an army pension.

Mycroft handed him a small cardboard box, filled with books, leaflets and sheets.

John flicked through some of them.

_A Dummy's Guide to British Sign Language_

_Teach Yourself BSL_

_Let's Sign Dictionary (2nd Edition) – Cath Smith_

_Signs of Health – Cath Smith_

A large, black tome towered over them. _British Sign Language/English – British Deaf Association _was emblazoned across the ridiculously thick spine.

Along with the bundle of books, were also reams of photocopies sheets, stapled together in tidy bundles. Several included basic information, such as 'key words' that included greetings, question words, days of the week, and basic answers. A finger spelling guide and alphabet, from various sources for some reason.

There were also several sheets listing resources, websites, blogs, interpreter's contact details, YouTube videos, deaf clubs and gatherings in the near future and a further smaller wedge of leaflets discussing basic etiquette and skills for when dealing with the Deaf, seemingly aimed at employers rather than people in John's position.

Mycroft chuckled at him.

'It must seem rather daunting, mustn't it? You needn't worry, it's no harder than any other language. Once you get to grips with the basics the rest will come quickly.'

John raised his eyebrows at the loads of information he was expected to memorise.

'Tell me John, have you ever gone away to a foreign country and emerged yourself in the culture?'

John thought about it briefly but decided that, ultimately, no he hadn't. He was a typical tourist. Speak slowly in English and hope to God they caught onto the gist on what you meant.

'Well, if you had you may be able to understand better. Most people find that language learning is far easier when oneself is surrounded by the intended language. Of course, in this case, it is also a culture, but the same idea applies.'

John nodded, half listening, thumbing through the large black book.

'That books is the complete guide, you best not worry about that just quite yet. Sherlock has his own copy in fact, although it is somewhat outdated. BSL _is _a living language after all, and words do change.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, take the telephone, for example. The sign for telephone today is,' he paused, fisting his hand and holding his thumb to his ear and little finger to his mouth, 'as you may have seen in countless advertisement. Whereas, many decades ago this sign,' he paused again, holding a bunched hand to his ear and a cupped hand below his mouth, mimicking the old style methods of phone calls, 'would have been prevalent.'

John frowned, nodding.

'It is simple,' Mycroft reassured, picking up on his apprehensiveness, 'some words and just like what you'd imagine. Not all of them, obviously,' he laughed, as if this was a ridiculous notion, 'but take book for example. Obvious. The simple idea of two flat hands, mimicking the opening of a book, the same way you'd gesture it to a child, perhaps. 'Hello' is just a wave and 'good' is a thumbs up. Bad is different, and consists of the hand being fisted and the little finger being stuck out. _But _that particular hand shape is interesting, because is has negative conations. It is the same hand shape used in the words 'awful', 'damn', 'feeble', 'discriminate', 'evil', 'rotten', 'quarrel', 'criticize', 'forbid' and well, I rather imagine you're getting the picture. That said, it is also used for 'chemist' which is the same sign as 'poison', and used for 'grey' in some part of the country. Colour signs tend to be very much localized, I've outlines the ones Sherlock would use in the smaller dictionary. It is also the hand shape used for sheep. Which makes me very wary of sheep,' Mycroft joked, laughing, sitting up straighter as the car slowed down, pulling up outside of 221 Baker Street.

'Well, thank you for the books and everything.'

'You are most welcome John. I do hope you plan to make good use of them. Of course, Sherlock would most likely take delight in assisting you with your studies, he does so like to show off. I will text you further details on the class tomorrow morning. As for now, I do believe mon petit frere requires your assistance. You have my number is you need it. It is on your phone, don't ask questions.'

John knew a dismissal when he saw one, and he packed up the large, now heavy cardboard box and heaved himself out of the car, Conan following him patiently. He struggled briefly to regain his balance with both cane on the slippery tarmac and box weighing him down on one side, but he managed, making his way back into 221b Baker Street for the second time that day, mind now focused on why Sherlock's texts were so urgent.

* * *

><p>Maybe a bit of a filler chapter? I'm not sure.<p>

I would love, love, love every and any review! I love every single one I get, I'm greedy like that.

I would love to say this will be updated very soon, but it cannot be promised. I hope to though, and will try my best

You can follow me on tumblr at my new URL Of a-black-car-has-pulled-up-and dor tumblr dot com. You can ask me questions there about BSL if you so wish, or just to request more info on signs, where I'll post a scan up if you wish!


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